


Exit Stage Left

by sakurasencha



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Canon Backstory, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Impromptu Food Fights, Music Halls, Victorian Era Shenanigans, Young Charles Carson, Young Violet Crawley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 01:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10889133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakurasencha/pseuds/sakurasencha
Summary: In which Charlie Carson says goodbye to music halls and teashops, and hello to a new life.





	1. Downton Music Hall

**Author's Note:**

> There's so much angst in the world, I just wanted to do something a little more lighthearted and fun. And for the record, I only did minimal research into Victorian era music halls and teashops, so the likelihood of historical inaccuracies is 100%.
> 
> Thanks as always to silverduck for editing.
> 
> Originally published 6/11 on ff.net

* * *

 " _You were on the stage? Carson, is this true?"_

" _It is, m'lord."_

* * *

 

Oddly enough, the first thought that shot into Charlie Carson's mind was how soft the silk gown felt against his cheek.

He would never understand how he kept finding himself in these impossible situations. All he wanted was to make his way in the world as respectably as any music hall performer could, but his longtime partner, and sometime nemesis, seemed bent on mischief at every opportunity, and unfortunately for Carson, he usually bore the brunt of the unavoidable fall out.

With a sigh, Carson thought back to the events that transpired – and the people that conspired – to bring him into this awkward state: a plate of cakes between his hands, and his head face down in the Countess of Grantham's lap.

* * *

_Six Hours Earlier_

Another train, another town. They all blurred together in Charlie Carson's mind, like the swiftly passing countryside on which he was now idly gazing. A series of green and brown smears through a small pane of dirty glass, each one just as gloomy and cheerless as the last. His partner, Charlie Grigg, broke the silence along with his reverie.

"Downton village, that's the name of the next place."

"I suppose so," Carson muttered, absently wiping the smudgy window with his handkerchief.

"Well don't sound so excited, Charlie," Grigg returned, sarcasm dripping from his voice. When his taunting went unheeded, Grigg cast a wary glance at his partner's vacant expression, and tried a different tack. "I've heard good things about this place. Just a village, mind, but supposed to be quite large."

Carson ignored his friend's prompting and continued staring out the small window. It didn't matter to him where they went next. Small village or large town, they were all the same to him. An endless parade of saloons and stages, cheers and jeers, and no room in between for a place he could call home.

The two Charlies had been on the road for years, plying their trade in music halls across England, a song and dance routine they dubbed "The Cheerful Charlies." They were reasonably popular wherever they went, and for a while Carson had found his lively vocation exciting. But as time went on and the novelty of living out of a suitcase wore off, Charlie began fostering a silent wish for a place to finally hang his cap and settle down. Something that he could establish and maintain, that he could put his heart and soul into, and be proud of.

He wouldn't find it on the stage, that much he knew. But singing and dancing were the only talents Charlie Carson could boast of, and so, when the whistle blew and the train stopped, the Cheerful Charlies grabbed their battered trunks and headed towards the address of their next booked gig.

"This place not's so bad, eh?" Grigg prodded. "Friendly faces all around, and the streets nice and tidy, just the way you like them."

Carson smiled his agreement. The village was alive with the activity and excitement of a typical Friday morning. Busy ladies strolled briskly down the street, bustles bobbing in time with their steps. A smattering of children ran here and there, their direction as careless and free as their hearts. He took a deep breath as a slight breeze began to blow, a refreshing burst of coolness on the hot August afternoon that seemed to blow his ill humor away.

"Not bad at all. Might have a pleasant stay for once."

"That's the spirit, Charlie!" Grigg agreed, giving his friend a pat on the back, glad to have finally maneuvered away his melancholy. "We'll have ourselves a good matinee, get a bite to eat before the evening show, and then afterwards have a bit of fun, now what do you say to that?"

Carson knew all too well what Grigg's idea of "fun" was and forbore a response. Instead he took in the swaying trees that lined the main street, the fresh and happy faces ambling about, and continued leisurely on his search for the direction scribbled on the scrap of paper in his hand.

Although neither of them had ever set foot in Downton village before, they had no trouble finding their destination. By 1882 the music hall and its variety of performers, from the mysterious magicians to the sonorous songstress, had all of England in its thrall. This place was no exception, and they found themselves in very little time before a middling and colorful building, a large sign over the door that read _Downton Music Hall_. Eager customers were already streaming in through the open doors, their spirits high with the prospect of an afternoon show.

Upon entering Carson saw a dozen or so long tables with benches adjacent on either side. A decent sized stage set perpendicular to the dining room lay straight ahead. The requisite piano stood off to one corner; the even more necessary bar at the other. It wasn't the grandest place he'd ever performed in, nor was it the worst. Just a regular song and supper saloon, nothing The Cheerful Charlies hadn't graced a thousand times before.

Carson had just finished straightening a cock-eyed picture frame hanging nearby, when a frantic middle-aged man came hastily up to greet them. His cheeks puffed with the exertion that such a burst of speed had placed on his well-rounded physique.

"The Cheerful Charlies, yes?" he breathlessly asked.

"That's us! Charlie Grigg's the name, and this here is Charlie Carson."

"Yes, yes, I know all that," the man wheezed out in exasperation. Pausing to catch his breath, he quickly mopped his glistening forehead with an already damp handkerchief. "You two are late! You're to go on directly after Madame Claire; that'll be in one hour!"

Without telling them so much as his name, the man abruptly went off again to take care of some other urgent business, and the Cheerful Charlies were left to fend for themselves before their call time.

"Well if that don't beat all!" Grigg said angrily. "The least he could have done is shown us where the dressing rooms are."

Carson remained more even-tempered. The hectic life of a showman came with few perks and a lot of grief, incivility being the chief of them. "Come on, Charlie," came his defeated reply, his mood once again soured. "We can find them ourselves."

* * *

_Plop. Plop. Plop._

The last of Madame Claire's balls had fallen to the floor, and the juggler finally made a dainty bow and quick exit as the sound of booing followed her off the stage. The curtain closed while the two Charlies stood patiently off to the side, waiting to take their place on the stage.

"Careful out there," she warned as she passed them backstage. "It's a tough crowd."

Grigg stared at her retreating figure in disgust. "Can you believe that?" he asked incredulously. "Well, at least she set the bar low. I fancy we won't have to work too hard to get this lot happy after that disaster of an act."

"We'll do the best we can, just as we always do."

"Whatever you say, Charlie," Grigg returned with a smirk, before leaving his companion to position himself at the other end of the long stage.

While the workers cleared the stage, and with the naive thought that he'd at last been afforded a few minutes of respite from both friend and foe, Carson took a deep breath, allowed every muscle to relax, and cleared his mind in a pre-show ritual that he particularly relished.

The moment of tranquility was soon shattered as the unhelpful stage manager, whose name Carson still didn't know, came speedily up to him while cramming a biscuit into his mouth.

"Good, good, you're all set to go," he managed between bites. "That's a high spirited crowd we've got out there, and, not to put any pressure on you, of course, but they weren't too happy after that last act."

"The Cheerful Charlies are well known for only the highest quality of performance," Carson said, offended at the notion that he could be satisfied with an execution of his profession that was anything below excellent.

"Of course, of course," he amended swiftly, "that's why I booked you." His cordial look shifted to something more menacing as he placed a hand on Carson's shoulder. "But we're not the only music hall around these parts, and I'm not keen on losing any customers over two bad acts in a row. I need a solid performance from the both of you now."

He'd omitted the 'or else' to the thinly veiled threat, but Carson could barely hear the words, spoken or unspoken, over the deafening sight of the manager's grubby hand firmly gripping his dark and pristine evening coat. The manager scurried off again, satisfied that he'd made himself clear, and Carson was horrified to find in his wake a decidedly hand shaped sweep of crumbs. He scrambled to remove his ivory gloves and brush off the mess before the duo was announced, and had just enough time to pull his gloves back on and straighten his colorful waistcoat before the Chairman's voice rang out from in front of the curtain.

"For our next act,

A charming duo of chums

With a chantey that will leave you chuckling:

The Cheerful Charlies!"

The creaking pulleys and quiet swishing of the curtain as it opened mingled with the familiar starting chords of the small piano. As often as he had performed this piece, Carson no longer needed to count out his entrance, but in all things Charlie Carson was a perfectionist, and the beats were numbered almost unconsciously in his mind. One, two, three, eight bars total till his cue. He took a deep breath, plastered a fake smile on his face, and began to sing.

_I've seen a deal of gaiety through out my noisy life._

_With all my grand accomplishments I ne'er could get a wife._

The deep timbre and quiet dynamic of his low bass had ushered in an initial hush amongst the formerly noisy crowd. With exaggeration he procured a gaudy and oversized handkerchief from his coat pocket. Extravagantly dabbing at his eyes to accompany the last line of the verse, he stopped his singing while Grigg sauntered onto the stage and seamlessly completed the refrain.

_The thing I most excel in is the P.R.F.G. game._

_A noise all night…_

_In bed all day…_

_And swimming in Champagne!_

A raucous laughter erupted from the audience as Grigg produced a large bottle marked _Moet_ and began flailing it around in a less than sober fashion, his mocking portrayal of the tipsy toff winning the crowd's approval once again. Carson may have earned his living lampooning the regular swell, but secretly he felt that these working class sorts could never seem to get enough of deriding their betters, however hypocritical it made him.

His need for sustenance outweighed his sense of respect, however, so he pushed the thought away and faced his partner as they cried out together:

_Foooor!_

The spectators' eyes followed a second bottle as it flew threw the air in a wide arc from one Charlie to another. Carson caught the projectile in one deft hand, and with a flourished double spin, they continued the chorus together.

_Champagne Charlie is my naaame!_

_Champagne Charlie is my naaame!_

_Good for any game at night, my boys, good for any game at night, my boys._

Grigg took the melody while Carson sang the harmony. No one could accuse The Cheerful Charlies of being virtuosos, but they both had strong and full, if not properly trained, voices, and the baritone and bass blended together to create a sound that was not altogether unpleasant.

_Champagne Charlie is my naaame!_

_Champagne Charlie is my naaame!_

_Good for any game at niiiight, boys, who'll come and join me in a spree?_

The two men glided towards each other, grape vining and shuffling their way across the stage till they stood side by side in the center. The bottles were unceremoniously tossed to the side, and two slick thin canes were simultaneously kicked up high, hovering weightlessly for a moment in the air, before falling gracefully into their waiting hands.

_The way I gain'd my title's by a hobby which I've got_

_Of never letting others pay, however long the shot._

The crowd lent their rough and jovial voices to the familiar song as The Cheerful Charlies belted out another verse together, twirling and dancing in time with the tune. A swing of the cane, a tip of the fancy top hats atop their heads, a few synchronized kicks, and the Cheerful Charlies once again had the guests of the music hall eating out of their fluttering hands.

_Who ever drinks at my expense are treated all the same,_

_From Dukes and Lords to Cabmen down…._

_I make them drink Champagne!_

The booze was already flowing, though it was only half past two, and Carson couldn't ignore the pockets of patrons scattered about who were all but ignoring the show in favor of their own pursuits. In one corner a young couple locked in a passionate embrace; in another two young men arguing hotly over the latest development in Irish Home Rule, their loud proclamations threatening to escalate to blows at any moment.

_Foooor!_

Charlie Carson was an entertainer by trade, but he was disciplined by birth, and despite all this he remained focused, unfazed by any distraction, and sang on.

_Champagne Charlie is my naaame!_

_Champagne Charlie is my naaame!_

_Good for any game at night, my boys, good for any game at night, my boys._

And now came time for the coup d'état, the grand finale, the big finish that always left the crowd on their feet applauding for more. A properly placed boost and an agile leap sent Grigg easily onto the shoulders of his much taller partner. The towering duo charged forward, the delight of the crowd matched only by the volume of their cheers.

At last the end was in sight, the number nearly over. Carson always felt a certain elation at the close of a perfectly executed performance, and the painful smile that never failed from his face was beginning to relax into something more sincere. It abruptly faltered, however, as Carson took his last step forward and felt under his feet, not the hard sturdy wood of the stage, but something small, round, and frighteningly unsteadying. He realized late, much too late, that one of Madame Claire's balls had apparently never been cleared from the stage.

A collective gasp shuddered through the audience at the misstep. The lovers broke apart; the young debaters left their argument unfinished. Every eye was transfixed on the swaying human tower that wobbled dangerously across the stage. One Charlie sang steadfastly on, vainly attempting to gain his balance; the other flapped his arms uselessly and vocalized his distress in a less dignified fashion.

 _Champagne Charlie is my naa_ **\- CHAAARLIE!**

 _Champagne Charlie is my naa_ **\- CHAAARLIE!**

Carson staggered from side to side, a sinking feeling of dread settling in his stomach with the apprehension of their inevitable collapse.

_Good for any game at niiiight, boys,_

_Who'll come and join me in a_ _**–** _ **OOF!**

The last piano chord echoed loudly in the silent hall as The Cheerful Charlies face planted painfully to the stage floor. Grigg groaned. Carson moaned. The only other sound was the creaking of the curtain as it quickly closed before them.


	2. Fight and Flight

 

* * *

 " _We did quite well, didn't we?"_

" _Until you couldn't keep your hands out of the till."_

* * *

"I think it went well, all things considered."

A humiliation on the magnitude that they'd just experienced would normally have thrust Carson into an implacable ill temper, but as the blame for the mistake laid squarely on the shoulders of the incompetent stage crew, he found a placidity in the aftermath that was strangely not shared by his fuming neighbor.

"Oh really?" came Grigg's scornful reply. "'All things considered', you say?" He stopped his walking and faced his partner with narrowed eyebrows, perturbed with the equanimity that Carson displayed.

"It was a disaster! Worse than Madame Claire and her Amazing Falling Balls. I could _throttle_ the woman!" He wrung his hands together to emphasize the point, angrily squeezing the life out of the imaginary neck.

"It wasn't as bad as that," Carson reasoned, taken aback by the brutal display. "It was certainly _embarrassing,_ I'll grant you, but at least the audience was mostly laughing instead of booing."

"As if that makes it any better!" He gave out a derisive snort, a signal that any further debate on the issue was over, and began walking again.

Grigg remained sullen, and continued for some minutes in silence. Carson flashed him a look of concern. He was at a loss to account for Grigg's unusually pessimistic attitude, an outlook more characteristic of Carson himself than his easygoing friend. When Grigg finally spoke again, it was in a tone more defeated than annoyed.

"We certainly won't be working at that place ever again."

His bitter words ended Carson's bewilderment, for he knew the hidden meaning behind them. No booking equaled no wages, and it was the loss of money, not dignity, that was the source of Grigg's anger.

"We've already been booked for the evening show, there's nothing they can do about that," Carson replied, trying to keep his tone light and his irritation suppressed. It had become a bitter talking point, lately, the subject of money. Carson had noticed the reserve of funds shared between the two men subtly diminishing, but his gentle questioning of Grigg on the matter had reaped nothing but denial and remonstrance. The absence was never overt, and the difference was small enough to be explained away as a simple accounting error, yet there was still the sneaking and uneasy suspicion in the back of Carson's mind that the real reason was walking beside him now.

"What does that matter, one more show?" Grigg argued. "That stodgy manager was clear enough; he won't be asking us back after tonight. The fact is we've lost out at this stop."

"The two shows, and whatever's left of the rest, will give us enough to cover our night's stay and two tickets to the next town. We'll break even, and we should be thankful enough for that," Carson said with a disapproving frown.

"Enough of all this talk, it's making me hungry." Grigg replied airily, eager to leave off the tenuous topic of finances. "Let's find a place to rest up and get something to eat."

Carson knew the matter was far from over, but conceded anyway. "There's a pub across the street," he offered.

"So we can be doused in even more booze and sweat?" Grigg's face puckered in distaste at the suggestion. "I'd rather not."

His eyes scanned the street and widened in delight as they chanced upon a small teashop situated several yards away. A smile that Carson came to think of as his "evil grin" slowly ascended onto Grigg's face. "I think that place will do nicely. Be good to have a fine meal for once," he said.

"Charlie," Carson began, the barest hint of a plea entering his voice, "you know how I feel about those places…"

"Would you come off it, Charlie?" Grigg hotly returned. "Every time I want to go somewhere or do something nice you have to throw cold water over everything!"

"Not one second ago you were complaining about money, and now you want to spend what little we have left on a meal we can't afford?" Carson said, his mind reeling at Grigg's accusation. "Need I remind you what happened the last time I let you convince me that a tea shop would 'do nicely'?"

"Aw, Charlie, that was _ages_ ago, ancient history! And it was more fun than anything, wasn't it? We had a lot of laughs, you and me, some of my best memories, really."

Carson's jaw clenched tighter and tighter with each word till he felt a familiar vein pop violently from his left temple.

"Just us against the world, right Charlie?" Grigg nervously laughed.

Carson held his breath tightly in his throat, the action serving the dual purpose of keeping his tongue in check and turning his face an eerie shade of purple.

"Come on, Charlie, it won't happen this time, I promise!"

The ire could be contained no longer. "That's what you always say!" Carson viciously yelled, nostrils flaring. "And it always does!"

Grigg jumped back at the outburst, reflexively raising his arms to shield himself from such unexpected vehemence. "Easy there, Charlie, no need to shout!" He waited a few moments for Carson's anger to abate, allowing his harried friend to vent his fury with heavy breathing.

The minutes passed as Carson composed himself. His breathing slowed, his hands stopped trembling, his jaw unclenched, and when Grigg saw that calm was on the horizon, he continued.

"Listen, I haven't told you, but I've got a bit of my own money stashed away, did a few odd jobs two towns back when you were laid up with that sprained ankle."

"Do you really expect me to believe you?" Carson asked wearily. His burning fury had subsided, but he was growing tired of all the nonsense, to say nothing of his hunger that still had not been satisfied.

Carson was unprepared for what happened next. Grigg's face softened, his eyes moistened, and his voice took on a strangely romantic and wistful sound that invoked in Carson all the warm feelings and nostalgia that a decade of shared work and shared life would inevitably instill in such a partnership.

"Of course not. Why would I expect that? Ten years we've been together. Partners, friends, perhaps even, dare I say, brothers? At least it felt that way to me." Grigg removed his hat and looked earnestly into Carson's eyes as a slight wind ruffled through his thick hair. "I thought it might be the same for you. I just want to treat you to something nice, after all the trouble I'm always putting you through." He held out his hand in entreaty. "You'll at least let me do that, won't you, Charlie?"

Carson knew he shouldn't be fooled. He knew it was all an act. Grigg was a showman of the first order, an actor at heart and he always would be. He could read people like telegrams: quickly and to the point. He'd marked out Carson years ago and could play him like a master puppeteer his doll. A large, hard man on the outside, a sentimental sod within, and Grigg knew exactly what strings to pull to get Carson singing any tune he wanted.

Carson knew all this, he tried to stay strong, and yet, when he looked upon his friend's sad features, however disingenuous he might believe them, he felt his resolve waver, and with a single, sparkling tear that pooled in the corner of Grigg's eye, it finally broke.

"Won't you, Charlie?"

* * *

Abigail returned to their small table with a steaming pot of tea and a tray laden with a variety of sandwiches and pastries. The plain young woman asked in a bored manner if they found everything to their liking, and if they needed something then not to hesitate to call for her. She was staring at her fingernails when Grigg thanked her, and had already left their table before he could finish asking if she might bring them some more sugar.

"Charming young woman," Grigg couldn't resist commenting.

"She obviously doesn't care much for the work," Carson replied while buttering a scone, "an attitude I'm not wholly unsympathetic with."

He had relented in the end, of course, just as he always did when Grigg employed his uncanny gifts of persuasion. He had entered the abode in trepidation, the ominously tinkling doorbell a fitting accompaniment to his rapidly beating heart. They had been seated quickly and with no preamble, their order had been taken without any difficulty, but Carson still couldn't dispel the anxiousness within and find it in him to relax.

What was it about these places that unnerved him? He supposed it had something to do with the consequences that dining in expensive establishments they couldn't afford usually rendered to the duet. A madcap dine and dash that nine times out of ten ended with at least thirty hours of kitchen duty one black eye and split between the two of them. Carson didn't like to dwell on which share of the aftermath he typically ended up with.

Grigg decided not to pursue Carson's allusion to his discontentment, and the two sat in companionable silence while they ate their meal, the hunger pains that slowly faded taking the bulk of Carson's vexation with them. The meal was quite good, the tea even better, and he found his discomfiture decreasing proportionately with the amount of food and time that distanced him from the earlier mortifying scene.

As the last of Carson's tension dissolved with his final sip of tea, he leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room that he had been loath to enter. _Miss Lucy's Teashop_ , while rather old and run down, was obviously aspiring to something a bit grander. Although the dull walls were shedding with peeling paint and the warped floorboards creaked with every step, the sunlight that filtered in uninhibited by the large clean windows reflected brightly off the crisp linens draped over the tables, and cast a sparkle on the spotless flatware laid neatly on top. Carson was pleased with his surroundings, and wondered that he had ever been afraid enter such a harmless little place.

Since providing her initial services and obliging offers of future assistance, Abigail had not yet made any reappearance. The duo loitered restfully in their seats for some time while waiting for their absent server, content to whittle away the afternoon in the noisy solace that only a room filled with people can provide. But when Carson saw the light flow of customers gradually increase to something more like a flood, his conscience told him their seats would undoubtedly be wanted, and mentioned to Grigg that it was probably best for them to pay their bill and be on their way.

It was only a brief flicker in Grigg's eye, but Carson had known the man sitting opposite him for too long, and caught it all the same. A flash of, not quite panic, but a fearful comprehension of what lay ahead, that left Carson unsurprised at his next words.

"That might be a bit of a problem."

Carson felt a flittering tingle behind his eyes, the first sign of the splitting headache that he usually associated with teashops specifically and his partner in general. Fully aware of the public setting, Carson did his best to remain calm.

"What exactly do you mean by that, Charlie?" he asked, his words quivering on the brink of outburst.

"You're not going to like it," Grigg began, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face, "but the thing is, I haven't been completely honest with you."

Carson covered his face with his hand and rested the suddenly heavy weight in his palm. It couldn't hide him from the inevitable scrape that was to come, but it would at least block out the image of the man whom he was increasingly longing to smack square in the jaw. "You don't have any extra money stashed away, do you?" he asked in a low monotone.

It may have well been a rhetorical question, for all Grigg bothered to deny the accusation.

"I had to say _something_ to get you inside!"

"Well I hope you're satisfied!" Carson whispered harshly. "We'll be spending all we have on this bill, and I've no idea how we're ever going to get out of this place."

Carson didn't specify whether he meant the teashop or the village, but both knew that it hardly mattered at this point. Carson drummed his fingers on the table as his mind raced for a solution that he knew would never come, someway they could get out of this debacle with both health, honor and at least a portion of their sanity intact.

"There's more, Charlie."

The rhythmic thumping abruptly stopped. Carson sat, mouth agape and completely motionless, as Grigg explained that, though he hadn't been completely honest, there was some truth in the story. After all, he had done a few odd jobs when Carson was laid up with that ankle. He failed to include the part about the nature of those "odd jobs", which Grigg now owned consisted of a single bet, on a single horse (which he heard never lost, never once), and with such incredible odds that he could hardly resist putting everything they had in on it.

"…So all that to say, in the end, well…" Grigg trailed off lamely and held his hands out flatly, the empty palms a manifestation of their now empty coffers.

"There's nothing left to spend."

The confession left Carson speechless. Bereft of words as he was, he was not so lacking in expression, and his livid features told Grigg everything he needed to say.

"It was a sure bet, you have to believe me!" Grigg said.

"As if that makes it any better!" Carson said, echoing Grigg's words from before, from just a few short hours ago, and from a much happier time, it now seemed. A time of innocence and ignorance, without this pesky knowledge of bankruptcy and delinquency. It felt like a lifetime ago, back when Carson still had the strength to stoke the fiery rage that had fueled him earlier. Now there was only the smallest flickering of a flame, and even that was soon extinguished. He felt drained and exhausted, as if the last drop of his energy had been sucked dry by world-weary parasites, leaving him a large and empty husk.

"If you knew we had no money, what in heaven compelled you to drag me into this place?" he wondered aloud.

"It wouldn't have mattered if we ate here, or anywhere else. It'd all have come to the same in the end. Figured we may as well go out in _style_ ," Grigg answered with wide eyes, patting his stomach.

"And what do you expect us to do now?" Carson asked. He was entirely aware of the answer and already resigned to his illicit fate, but still, he didn't like to be the one to actually say it. He somehow felt less culpable if Grigg was the one who put the plan of their ignoble escape into action.

"Just as we always do when we find ourselves in a pickle. We're a double act, you and me, we can perform our way out of anything." He pointed at the front entrance and gave a wink while boldly proclaiming, "We'll be up and out through that door before anyone notices we've even left our chairs."

"We can't simply walk out the front door." Carson pointed out. "That bell will give us away immediately."

Grigg snapped his fingers. "Now you're thinking, Charlie! Always knew you were the clever one. Then it'll be a back door job; all right then, nothing we haven't managed before."

Carson took a deep, calming breath, and readied himself for his second performance of the day. The art of being inconspicuous, however difficult to master by an innate showman like Grigg, seemed almost second nature to Carson , who was peculiarly adept at becoming invisible when he needed to be.

Their usual tactic was to slowly rise from their seats one after the other – never together - ostensibly to stretch their limbs or have a look around. Separately they would meander towards the planned escape route, till they converged on the target and made a quick and discreet getaway.

So far, their act had been performed beautifully. No one seemed to notice the odd pair milling aimlessly about the shop. The patrons continued eating, drinking, and laughing, without giving The Cheerful Charlies even the slightest consideration. The two walked unobtrusively to the back of the shop to a long hallway, at the end of which was the only other exit.

Carson kept as brisk a pace as he dared down the corridor. His long legs ached to increase their speed, but he schooled them into submission. They were almost halfway down when a side door neither had noticed swung abruptly open, causing Carson to come to a swift halt that sent Grigg crashing into his back. His once rapid heartbeat stopped mid-thump as a figure emerged and greeted Carson with a familiarly bland and expressionless face.

There was no surprise, or even recognition, that registered on Abigail's impassive features when she saw them. But she must have remembered who they were and discerned their motives, for she asked, "Now where're you two running off?" followed by, "Haven't yet paid, have you?"

"Not _Her_!" Carson heard Grigg loudly lament. His words had the effect of jolting Carson from his stupor, and he quickly rushed past the inscrutable waitress down the corridor. He felt his heart beat wildly in his chest, his gulping breaths burned down his throat, and he could only hope that Grigg was sensible enough to follow his lead.

"Someone, stop them," he heard Abigail call halfheartedly, rooted to her spot.

He could see the light shining around the edges of the back door, a halo that shone brightly with the hope of a narrow escape.

"Haven't yet paid," she continued, without moving a muscle.

Carson had never before been so grateful for such a perfect union of incompetence and apathy. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw her turn around and walk staidly in the other direction. Relieved that their discovery had gone unnoticed, he quickened his stride, and shot a brief smile at his following partner.

There were only a few seconds for Carson to ponder Grigg's horrified look before his momentum was violently halted and a blinding flash of pain exploded onto his face. Carson winced as he found himself, for the second time that day, face planted into something hard and sturdy.

Charlie Carson was a tall man, but he still had to tilt his head to see the face that belonged to the distinctly person shaped barrier blocking their exit. He was met with a square jaw set in grim scowl, a garbled nose broken too many times, and a bald head flecked with scars. With a cleaver in one hand and a rolling pin in the other, he was quite possibly the ugliest and most terrifying person Carson had ever laid eyes on. Carson felt the cook's hot breath beating down onto his scalp and the rumble of the enormous man's chest as he spoke.

"Going somewhere boys?"


	3. The Little Teashop of Horrors

* * *

 " _And to think Taylor's gone off to run a teashop. I can not think it will make for a very restful retirement, can you?"_

" _I would rather be put to death, m'lord."_

* * *

 

Charlie Carson glanced at his wrinkled hands in disgust while inwardly cursing his supposed friend once more. They'd been partners for years, and though they had never been rich, they'd always had enough to get by. Now they were well and truly broke, their hard earned money underhandedly pilfered and wasted on a bad bet. How many shows would it take to recoup their losses? And how long before Grigg would throw it all away again?

The questions swirled around in Carson's mind as he observed his partner, hands plunged in the soapy water that refused to stop sloshing out of the large basin, and humming a merry tune that did nothing to improve Carson's mood. It had been painful to watch his friend spiral down from a foolish youth to a deceitful and spendthrift man, but this latest escapade had at last convinced Carson that it was time to end this partnership, and get off the train before Grigg derailed them both.

Upon capture, _The Cheerful Charlies_ had been summarily seized and roughly dragged to the kitchen at the back of the shop. The manhandling had been awkward enough to bear, but Carson only now felt the true evil of their situation; held prisoner over the large washbasin, forced to pay off their meal by way of physical labor, and helpless to resist in the face of such perverse consequences that the cook so ably outlined.

Their ever-present sentinel stood nearby, working his way through a massive pile of pastry dough, his red stained apron turning pink with the dusting of flour. Carson had been content to perform his duties in somber reflection and silence, but Grigg's conscience had always been the less sensitive of the two, and his mind was not so troubled as to preclude conversation.

"Do you do any butchering here, then?" Carson heard his friend ask.

"No."

"Then what happened to your apron?"

A hard thwack of dough on wood was the only reply the cooked deigned to give. Carson gave Grigg a hard stare, willing him to keep his mouth shut and leave well enough alone. His silent admonition was cut short, however, when another wave of suds made its way over the brim of the sink. Carson shifted back, but his mistimed precaution failed to save his apron from getting thoroughly soaked.

"Not scared of a little water, are we?" a gruff voice bit out as another glob of dough was slapped loudly onto the counter.

"Not at all."

"Then get back to washing!"

Carson could only grab another teacup from the mass that remained, stacked up before him like a snow-capped summit, and begin to scrub. The white columns teetered dangerously, an avalanche of porcelain threatening to crash down with the slightest nudge. He observed the dainty vessels as he cleaned them, the curve of the delicate handles fastened so precariously to the fragile cup. Truly despicable contraptions, he had always thought. Practically designed for maximum discomfort and optimal chipping ability.

An unchanging grimace sat on Carson's face while he continued to work diligently on the dwindling pile of dishes. His hands grew weary with the tedious work, and his eyes even more so. His vision was beginning to blur with the unwavering image of the dirty dishwater, and at length he allowed them to wander to the shelves directly above. Carson was surprised when they landed on a beautiful silver teapot, a singular mark of refinement that seemed out of place in the hot and dirty kitchen. An involuntary smile crept into the corners of his mouth. Now this was a piece of tableware he could approve of! Strong. Sturdy. Dependable. It obviously wasn't used in service, and Carson imagined that it must have been a gift bestowed upon the owner from some benevolent and wealthy benefactor.

He leaned in to get a better look, but was interrupted when the proprietor of the tearoom, Miss Lucy herself, ran frantically into the kitchen.

"Here we go," anticipated the cook with resignation. "What is it this time, Lucy?"

"Have a care, John, and save the tone for someone who _doesn't_ pay your salary!" she tartly replied. "We've got a _real_ emergency!"

The beleaguered cook's eyes shifted upwards. "Isn't it always?"

"It's _Abigail_ and _Louisa_!" she exclaimed, tossing her hands in the air dramatically. "They've both gone off, _Lord_ knows where, and now we're left without any servers!"

"A whole lot of nothing those two do, even when they are here," the cook calmly replied, his hands never stopping from their steady work on the large pile of dough. "Don't see nothing to fret about; you've managed just fine without their help before."

"Not _now_ , " she wailed, "not at the afternoon _rush_!" Her hands flew to her head, grabbing her hair and pulling fiercely at the curly strands. "We've got a _frenzy_ of customers coming in, and they'll not be best pleased with a long wait."

"I tried telling you those two were no good for the job," the cook reminded her while rolling out another crust.

"I could do without the _attitud_ e, John," she snapped, rounding on the cook with wide, savage eyes. "What I need now is a _solution_!"

With a long-suffering sigh, he inclined his head towards the two indentured workers. "You'll have to settle for these two, then."

Carson had hitherto watched the ensuing argument in bemused silence, but was roused to shock at the cook's words. The look on Lucy's face told Carson that the cook's suggestion was just as repugnant to her as it was to him. _The Cheerful Charlies_? Front of the house? Serving? The very idea of it boggled. His partner, on the other hand, seemed to find nothing strange in the new commission of duty.

"Course we can do it!" Grigg said excitedly. "Me and Charlie here would be happy to help you fine people out. We're performers, after all. We can do almost anything!"

"Begging your pardon, miss," Carson cut in hastily, "despite what Charlie here may say, the truth is we've no experience serving, and I don't think we'd make a good go of it. Like he said, we're performers. Singing and dancing are all we know, and I'm afraid we'd only end up making things worse for you."

Lucy's brow furrowed at his confession, and she bit her fingernails in agitation, weighing her options. She paced up and down the short length of the kitchen, and with one final glance heavenward, as though in supplication of the Almighty Himself, she sighed despondently and said, "There's _nothing_ for it. We're really left with no choice. You may not like it and neither do I, but you boys will _have_ to act as servers."

Carson remained firm. "I'm afraid I really must refuse," he insisted, drawing himself up with as much dignity as he could muster in a sopping wet apron.

He felt a dark presence behind him. "You'll do as the lady says," he heard the cook's low voice breath dangerously down his neck, causing his hairs to stand on end and his mouth to go suddenly dry.

Carson gulped. "I…of course we will."

* * *

_Right. Left. Right. Left._

Carson repeated the mantra in his mind, a wobbling tray clenched in a deathlike grip between his hands. The tray's contents, a few plates of sandwiches and a pot of steaming tea, clattered nervously with the tremors that radiated down his arms.

_Nice and steady. One foot in front of the other._

He'd never imagined the difficulty behind the seemingly effortless task of delivering a tray of goods without promptly dumping it all onto an unsuspecting customer's lap. There were a thousand things to think of at once: keeping the tray balanced, watching his footsteps, remembering for whom the order was intended, and avoiding the pitfalls and hurdles that marked the way from the pick up counter to the final destination.

_Right. Left. Right. Left. ROLL YOUR FEET!_

His ragged breathing was making him increasingly light headed, and his neck itched with the beads of perspiration that trickled down his nape and soaked into his rapidly wilting collar. Carson felt sick from the lack of oxygen and the horrifying image of irrevocable sweat stains implanted onto his finest shirt. Knuckles already white, he gripped the tray even harder, forcing his hands to remain in place rather than take up his handkerchief and alleviate his discomfort.

He kept his eyes fixed on the intended target, a party of three seated at the far end of the teashop only several yards away. In truth it was a very short distance, but to Carson's perception insurmountable. Every long cane, errant limb, frilly parasol, and oversized hat had morphed into a barrage of obstacles bent on felling him with every step.

He stopped in his place and attempted to steady his breath and calm his nerves. What was this but any other performance, any other show? How many people had he pretended to be over the course of his career? He could be, nay, _had_ to be, yet one more, without falling to pieces. He was Charlie Carson, and whether he was belting out the last chorus of Champagne Charlie or acting as a waiter in a mediocre tearoom, he would do it and do it well.

The internal pep talk brought on a fresh wave of determination and focus. He leapt gracefully over the carelessly placed cane, nimbly ducked under the long arm of a stretching gentleman, deftly side-stepped the parasol of a yawning woman, and narrowly dodged the tilting hat atop a laughing lady's head. He set the tray down on the table to the delight of the seated patrons, ensured they had everything they needed, and moved shakily back to the counter to pick up his next order.

The first ordeal was over, and Carson breathed a sigh of relief. He had felt not a small measure of injustice when told that he would act as waiter while Grigg was given the less intimidating task of clearing and setting the empty tables, but now that he had survived, persevered, and even excelled at his assignment, Carson was eager to continue his most challenging performance yet.

The second order came much easier, the third even more so. As the minutes and hours ticked by Carson was growing more and more comfortable with his new and involuntary position. He floated through the shop like a veritable Hermes, conveying his wares in an elegant and dignified manner that, while earning him no favors on the stage, were received with pleasure and appreciation by the guests of the tea shop. His efficiency had even earned him a few minutes reprieve, no small feat in a teashop as busy as Miss Lucy's, and Carson sat down in a nearby chair to rest his aching feet, until alerted by a nearby voice.

"You're not half bad at this."

Carson looked over to see Miss Lucy, arms folded and leant up against the counter, a quirky smile perched on her mouth that wavered between amusement and admiration. Although he still ardently disapproved of his conscripted service, it was with some difficulty that he suppressed his own burgeoning smile at her comment. He was still human, after all, and not entirely immune to praise.

He walked over to her and leaned his tall frame closer. "It is strange," he mused, "but I don't half mind doing it." The smile could no longer be restrained from his face, and by the time he had finished his remark he realized that he was beaming.

"Oh yes!" she heartily agreed. "You seem to be doing quite well out there, for someone with no experience."

Carson was not quite ready to admit that he actually enjoyed his compulsory employment, and chose to change the topic. "Have you been here long?" he asked.

"Oh no, not _very_ long," she answered. "Only a few years. I used to have a post in service at Downton Abbey."

"Downton Abbey?"

"Oh, do you not know it? The seat of the Earl of Grantham? It's not far from here, just a few miles from the village."

Carson accepted her explanation with a nod and she continued.

"Well, I was there for a good while, as kitchen maid, until Great Uncle Lionel died and I got the money to purchase _this_ place." Her arms swept out majestically in presentation of the bountiful gifts to be had from familial expiration, her joyful eyes and glowing cheeks an indication that she felt Great Uncle Lionel's sacrifice well worth the reward.

Carson tried to hide the shock from his face at the admission. He marveled at the idiocy of one who could trade in a life surrounded by beautiful things and beautiful people to spend every day in a place that had only ever brought him much misery and regret. He wavered between a polite response or being true to himself, but was spared a decision when Lucy continued.

"I know it's not much _now_ , but I'll get her fixed up right, _you'll_ see," she said with animation, balling her fists in a fighter's stance to prove to Carson her determination.

She had passion, Carson was forced to admit. He admired her temerity, but thought it was ill spent on something as appalling as a teashop. He shrugged his shoulders in lieu of a reply, and was grateful when the cook rang the bell for the next pick up, scurrying him off obediently.

Exclamations, proclamations, conversation, and laughter all flowed together to fill the air space of the tiny shop. It was a continual hum that Carson had by now grown used to, punctuated only by the jingling of the shop bell that never seemed to cease. Busy as he was, and awash in the white din of chatter, he took no note of the bell that sharply tinkled once more, but looked up in confusion and surprise when every voice in the shop abruptly stopped.

Imperious would be too soft a word to describe the person who stood sneering in the doorway. The woman was positively mythic. A tiny waist corseted beyond anything Carson could call reasonable, a pert and gaudy bustle seeming to defy gravity itself, all topped off with a hat of such epic proportions as to be virtually plucked from a milliner's wildest dream. Carson had never seen her like in any of his long travels, and quelled a slight trembling in his hands with the frightening knowledge that he'd actually be forced to serve her.

"Your ladyship!" Miss Lucy cried, breaking the silence and rushing forward to meet the noblewoman. "I wasn't expecting you!"

Like a clap of thunder, Lucy's welcome had dispelled the calm and recommenced the squall of idle chatter and talk from before. The happy customers went back to enjoying their teatime, and ignored her Ladyship as best they could.

"Good afternoon, Lucy," her Ladyship replied. Her eyes took in the humble shop with a glint of displeasure. "I told you I'd come to visit your little venture, and I'd like to be known as a woman of my word."

"I _suppose_ , m'lady. Course that _was_ rather a long time ago and –"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Is my presence here somehow unwelcome?" her ladyship asked, in a tone that contained no apology and would brook no argument.

"No, _no_ , of _course_ not, m'lady," Lucy quickly sputtered. "It's an _honor_ to have you here, whenever you please. Let me show you to a table."

"Yes, thank you," her Ladyship sniffed. "It's a pleasure to finally be here." Her sentiment was polite enough, but her curled lip said otherwise.

Lucy led the noblewomen to a table in the middle of the room, and beckoned wildly to Carson. He let go a breath he forgot he was holding, momentarily swaying with the rush of oxygen to his head and the foreboding thought of the eminent introduction to her Ladyship. With one final straightening of his waistcoat, he made his way over to meet the inimitable lady.

"This is Charlie – Charles – Carson, m'lady. He'll be taking care of you," Lucy explained, turning towards Carson. "Charles, this is the Countess of Grantham, my former employer. You'll make sure she has _everything_ she needs."

"Of course, Miss…Lucy," Carson stuttered, realizing too late he had no idea of her last name. Lucy held back a snarl at Carson, smiled graciously at Lady Grantham, and finally took her leave of both.

Palms sweating, Carson cleared his throat, unsure of what to say. He'd never been this close to an aristocrat before, near enough to actually smell the perfume wafting from her neck and see the slight sheen of moisture on her forehead. He had a reasonable suspicion that women such as the Countess wouldn't be at all averse to a compliment or two, and decided to open with just that.

"I'd just like to begin by expressing what an honor it is to serve you, m'lady - " he began magnanimously.

"Yes, yes, of course," Lady Grantham said with a wave of her gloved hand. " Let's dispense with all the groveling, if you please, I'm incredibly thirsty."

Carson shut his open mouth in confusion, letting the rest of his prepared accolades go unfinished. "And what will you have, then?" he asked instead.

"Some tea will do just fine"

"Anything else, m'lady?"

"Oh, bring me whatever you like," she answered, opening a small fan and flapping it furiously. "It doesn't really matter; I won't actually be _eating_ anything from that kitchen."

Carson's face didn't alter from its mask of humble serenity, but his ears imperceptibly perked up at the unapologetic statement. He couldn't deny that he was quickly becoming quite fond of her Ladyship. After a life filled with grandstanders and show boaters, he found her plain and uncompromising manner refreshing, and before he realized what he was doing he leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "I understand completely, m'lady."

"Oh do you?" she asked, putting down her fan. She arched an eyebrow and turned her head slightly to rest her gaze on Carson, as if seeing him for the first time. "Then I suppose you, too, must have had the pleasure of meeting John the cook."

Carson pursed his lips to keep them from quirking upward. "I'm afraid I have had that pleasure, m'lady."

Lady Grantham gave Carson a penetrating look, boring through his inscrutable features to find the measure of the man within. "I think you and I shall deal quite well together, Charles," she decided before fanning herself again.

Carson's heart skipped a beat at her compliment, and he gave a silent prayer that she wouldn't notice the rosy hue spreading uncontrollably across his cheeks. He acknowledged her condescension with a slight bow and went quickly off to give the cook her order.

"A pot of tea and a few scones," he informed the cook. "And bear in mind that this order is for her _Ladyship_."

The cook stared at Carson with indifferent, half-lidded eyes, and he went on about his culinary business without any increase to his speed or efficiency. Carson stood nearby with folded arms and tapped his foot in impatience, for he would not dare attend to any other customers till the Countess had her desired drink and he ensured that she was entirely satisfied.

His eager anticipation of another encounter with the Countess claimed Carson's full attention while he waited, but it was soon diverted by a commotion that erupted from across the room. He heard Grigg shouting loudly and unintelligibly. Looking over, he saw his partner shaking like a leaf, his face flushed crimson with rage. He couldn't see whom Grigg was yelling at, but he recognized the voice as it shouted back. The accents were unmistakable, the high-pitched and nasally tone indelibly branded into his mind; it was a voice he would never forget, and one that he would know anywhere.

"I don't know what you're yelling at _me_ for! I _told_ you it was a tough crowd!"

Madame Claire. She of the horrible juggling. The performer whose gross lack of talent had stripped _The Cheerful Charlies_ of any future employment at Downton Village.

Carson hadn't noticed the juggler enter the teashop amidst the pomp of the Countess' grand entrance, and surmised that Grigg must have spotted her while clearing a nearby table. Her presence didn't bode well for the calm end to a hectic day that Carson had been dreaming about, and he speedily made his way over to the arguing pair in a vain attempt to stem the tide of hot words that flowed between them, and assuage the curiosity of several close-by customer's who were beginning to take interest in the proceedings.

He placed a firm hand over Grigg's mouth, effectively muting the shorter man, and giving Carson a chance to reason with him, to explain that though it was her ball they had tripped over, she wasn't completely to blame for the downfall, both literal and figurative, of the duo.

Carson knew Grigg would hardly see matters in as judicial a light, but didn't expect the hard press of teeth on flesh that followed. Carson gave out a loud yelp and nursed his wound, while Grigg continued to cast aspersions on Claire's character such that would make even the hardened cook cringe with disgust.

"You're not going to let him talk to me that way, are you Henry?" Claire suddenly and inexplicably asked.

Carson forgot his pain for a moment, and _The Cheerful Charlies_ looked at each other in confusion. "Henry? Who's Henry?" asked Grigg, briefly knocked off target by the question.

"I am," wheezed a gentleman just approaching the table. Even if Carson hadn't recognized the voice, his round figure was impossible to forget, and though his hand was throbbing in pain and his head felt tighter than a well-tied corset, he did feel a small measure of gratitude that he finally knew the stage manager's name.

"And you're absolutely right, my dear," Henry chivalrously continued. "I won't allow this talentless hack to insult you."

"'My dear?'" repeated Grigg. His eyebrows raised and his jaw lowered as the pieces slowly began to fall into place "Well now it's all starting to make sense. You'll do away with our act, but not hers?"

"My music hall, my decision," said Henry with a smug smile. "Now, why don't you go off and fetch us a plate of sandwiches?"

"Oh, I'll 'fetch' you something, all right," Grigg answered, low and menacing, as he reached for a particularly gooey tart that sat oozing on a nearby plate.

Henry's lips became a thin line, and his uni-brow narrowed like a bending caterpillar. "You. Wouldn't. Dare."

"Ha! And my name isn't Charlie Grigg!" he exclaimed, chucking the half-eaten tart at Henry while Carson stood by helplessly. The pastry whizzed through the air, trailing a thin line of delicious raspberry filling in its wake. Grigg grinned in unabashed delight, but what he didn't count on, however, was the deceptive agility that Henry possessed despite his figure, and his ability to deftly duck just in time for the tart to fly over him and smack clean into the back of a rather tall gentleman's head.

There was a silent interlude as every conversation in the teashop instantly stopped. Said tall gentleman rose from his chair, painstakingly slow. As if hypnotized, every eye was targeted on the gentleman's head that was currently inching upwards, splatters of rich filling dribbling down his neck, and therefore no one noticed the slender hand that reached for an éclair set on the table beside him.

"That…was a mistake," he hissed.

Without another word the éclair was pitched in the reverse trajectory of the tart and zoomed with alarming speed towards Grigg's panicked face. He looked right. He looked left. At the last second before impact he swiftly dived head first into a table at his side, effectively saving him from an ignoble éclair-whacking, and with the double benefit of the creamy pastry smashing indelicately into Madame Claire's face.

The loud crash of Grigg hitting the table and the outraged cries of the guests seated there failed to drown out Claire's indignant huff. She quickly took up several moist looking cakes, charging towards the gentleman and juggling the desserts in a giant pinwheel of pastry. Laughing maniacally, she began hurtling them one by one at his face as each slice came to the end of the rotation and entered her hand.

Unfortunately, her aim was nearly as bad as her juggling, and each cake missed the gentleman by a wide margin, only to land haphazardly on the suddenly less entertained customer's seated within range.

Chaos was escalating at a frightening rate, and before long Carson was horrified to realize that every body in the quaint tearoom was engaged in a spectacular food fight. His occupation being what it was, this was by no means Carson's first battle involving food, and at once his instincts took over. Dodging slices of pie and ducking under dainty tea sandwiches, he could hear the horrified gasps and mortified proclamations of the less practiced participants.

"How dare you!" someone shrieked.

"I say! Rather bad form!" a young man admonished.

"Mmmm…chocolate!" Henry rhapsodized.

"MY TEA SHOP!" Lucy wailed uncontrollably.

Carson looked over to see Lady Grantham, serenely seated in her chair and completely immaculate, still cooling herself with her painted fan. Like the eye of a tornado, the chaos swirled around her, without even a single drop of cream or splatter of frosting entering her cone of fortitude.

So mesmerized was he by contrasting sight that he failed to notice the chunky scone headed straight for his temple. It connected with a painful thwack that jolted him out of his stupor, and once again gave awareness to the lunacy taking place around him.

A parasol-wielding lady batting out round after round of pastry with the accuracy of an accomplished cricket player.

Two gentlemen alternatingly dunking each others faces into an assortment of cream pies that Carson didn't even know were on the menu.

Madame Claire, who was obviously a much improved juggler when angry, continuing her rapid fire of cakes out of her quick hands.

The surrealism of the moment did not escape Carson, and he briefly wondered if this could all be some kind of freakish dream. Everywhere he looked were flailing bodies and flying foodstuffs, both of which occasionally beamed him indiscriminately on varying parts of his person. There seemed no friend or foe in the struggle; it was every man for himself, a fight to the finish where only the last man standing could be crowned champion.

" _John_! You must _do_ something!" Carson could hear Lucy prevailing loudly upon the cook. He neither saw nor heard the cook's reply, and just when he thought there could possibly be no end to the madness, a deadly voice bellowed out loudly that caused his blood to freeze.

"Everybody! Put down your scones!"

The order reverberated down the length of the shop, and the whole room was immediately frozen; the only exception a full plate of cakes that was currently sailing straight for the Countess of Grantham's face. That redoubtable lady didn't move an inch, but simply stared at the oncoming missile as if daring it to actually make contact with one such as she.

It was apparent to Carson that a few seconds would finish the whole business. An overwhelming feeling of protection immediately overtook him, and he ran towards the projectile as fast as he could, praying to God that he would make it in time.

_One…_

He could feel each heartbeat acutely, the whole organ threatening to burst from his chest.

_Two…_

He increased his stride to breakneck speed, every sinew in his body stretched to the breaking point.

_Three…_

He saw that he would by no means make it in time to stop the collision, and with a mighty jump and lunge flew straight into the platter's path, and caught the plate in his outstretched hands.


	4. A New Life

* * *

  _"Life's altered you, as it's altered me. And what would be the point of living, if we didn't let life change us?"_

* * *

 

Carson gave a mental sigh at the recollections that had brought him to his present circumstances: uncomfortably situated in the Countess' lap, unable to extract himself without upsetting the tray of pastries clutched in his hands, and mortified beyond anything that had previously been experienced in his short but embarrassing life. His only consolation in all this was that his face planting tendencies had at last granted him an impact with something soft and supple, rather than the hard and sturdy surfaces of late.

"Your Ladyship!" Lucy cried, rushing forward and snatching the plate of cakes from Carson's hands. "Are you all right?"

The cook's order coupled with her Ladyship's near miss had brought the food fight to a swift close. The only thing Carson's eyes could behold at the moment was the swath of violet silk his head was currently embedded in, but he could hear the befuddled cries and pitiful groans of the other combatants in the impromptu battle. No longer forced to lay claim the offending plate of cakes, he felt safe enough to remove himself from his awkward position, and with hands that were trembling more than slightly and a cringe he was grateful no one could see, he gingerly placed both palms on the Countess' thighs and used the steady support to push himself back up to standing.

Lady Grantham had still said not a word. She sat poised and radiant, staring with penetration at a spot somewhere across the shop, and still fanning herself delicately –but perhaps a touch more rapidly. When Carson had completed his extrication, she turned and gave him such a piercing look that he was surprised he didn't turn to stone. She opened her mouth to speak and Carson was sure he was done for, but to his surprise she turned her regal countenance to the side and addressed the distracted Lucy.

"I'm perfectly fine, Lucy," Lady Grantham assured, smoothing the face-shaped impression out of her frock. She shooed away Lucy's ministrations. "Stop fidgeting over me, and kindly see to those other guests less fortunate than I," she ordered, inclining her head to the outraged customers that were milling about in a daze, drenched in copious amounts of cream and frosting.

Lucy didn't wait for any more encouragement, and hurried off to do whatever damage control she could. She ran frantically about the disheveled shop, hovering over each customer for half a second before moving on to the next; too short a time to appease the patrons, but just long enough to effectively annoy them.

This left Carson to the terrifying prospect of facing the Countess without a mediator. He wracked his brain for an appropriate segue to apology. What did one say to a person when one's head had just been exposed to the more intimate parts of their anatomy? And not just any person, but a member of the ruling class, a Countess of good breeding, who was unused to even being in a teashop, much less bearing with such untoward and uncomfortable manhandling. How could he possibly apologize for the affront to sacred personal space that any proper Englishwoman surely prized more than life itself? Like a swarm of bees the questions buzzed in Carson's brain, stinging his mental vortex and leaving him paralyzed.

"Young man," the Countess said sharply.

"Ye-, yes, m'lady?" he replied in quivering voice. She paused for a few moments without moving a muscle, still examining whatever captivated her interest from across the shop. Carson had the foreboding feeling that his time on earth was limited.

"That was an incredible save."

"I –" Carson had meant to begin a profuse and energetic apology, but was stopped short by the unexpected response. "Tha…thank you...m'lady..." he stuttered. His mind went blank, his powers of speech choosing at this moment to spitefully abandon him.

She disregarded Carson's blubbering, and with a crisp snap her fan abruptly closed and she began collecting her things. "A quick mind and a pair of steady hands are hard to come by," she explained succinctly, before gracefully tilting her head to look directly up at Carson.

"And so is good help."

Carson could no more make out the Countess' inscrutable remark than he could account for her lack of justifiable wrath. Hadn't he just spent several moments breathing in the creases of her dress? What was all this talk about "steady hands" and "good help"? He wasn't sure how to respond to such vagueness, but decided at this point that honesty would be the best policy.

"I'm not sure I understand your meaning, m'lady," he tentatively asked.

"Downton Abbey is in need of a new footman," she replied, rising from her chair. "You'll come by with an application for Mr. Hoover, our butler." And without any other instruction she began sauntering her way towards the exit, leaving Carson nonplussed and still entirely confused. He understood her command well enough, but realized that she must be under false impressions as to the true nature of his employment. With a fierce stab to his conscience, he called out after her retreating back.

"That's very generous of you, m'lady, but–" the negative conjunction halted Lady Grantham in her tracks "–but, you see, I've never been in service, and I don't have any previous experience. The truth is, these last ten years I–" he paused briefly to bury the lump in his throat, and his head hung in abject shame.

"I've worked as a performer. In the halls."

He knew his admission had sealed his fate. He waited for the Countess to proclaim her disdain and dismiss him unceremoniously. She didn't turn around, but deigned to at least crane her neck to the side and peer at him through her periphery.

"Never mind that. You'll have my recommendation, and that will carry far more weight than a thousand good references. I'm a woman of my word, Charles, I'll see to it that you get a fair chance," she said over her shoulder. Turning her head back around, she gave one final sniff before adding, "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I've exhausted my quota of teashops for one lifetime."

And with that she swooped through the teashop door, only the faint scent of perfume wafting in the air and the tinkling of the shop bell giving evidence that her Ladyship had ever been there at all. Carson blinked in gape-mouthed awe where her Ladyship had just stood as the enormity of what had just occurred began to sink in.

A footman at Downton Abbey. Carson had never considered going into service before, but the more he dwelled on the idea the more he liked it. A permanent home. A steady income. A respectable job with respectable employers. All the comforts he lacked and all the talents he possessed came to an intersection at the Countess' offer, and while Carson stood in the crossroads of opportunity, covered in colorful pastry filling and clotted cream, he felt the void in his gut slowly begin to fill and his lips curve into a slow smile.

The smile vanished into a wide mouthed yelp as Lucy viciously assaulted the back of his head with a mop.

"OUT! Out of my shop! The _both_ of you! _NOW_!"

The united forces of Lucy's mop attack and the cook's draconian face were more than enough to send _The Cheerful Charlies_ scurrying out of the teashop with haste. Outside, Grigg began laughing uncontrollably while wiping cream out of his eyes.

"What did I tell you, Charlie? And to think I had to practically beg you just to step foot in the place. A lot of good memories this will bring us!"

In the past Carson might have shrugged off Grigg's careless comment; made excuses for his high spiritedness or relied on their long history to motivate forgiveness. Those days were over.

"Really?" he replied. His tone was more angry than sarcastic. "I for one didn't find it at all amusing."

"Could have fooled me. Saw you getting a mite cozy with her _ladyship_ back there," Grigg teased, prodding Carson with a pointed elbow-nudge.

Carson's face softened at the mention of that grand lady. "Not exactly. She offered me a job," he said quietly.

"A what?"

"A job," he said again, this time louder. "As a footman. At Downton Abbey."

"A footman? You?" Grigg began laughing even harder than before. "What a lark, Charlie! I can see it now: dressed up in a penguin suit, opening the door for some hoity-toity gentleman, and handing old ladies cups of tea!"

He'd expected Grigg to find the whole idea ridiculous. His friend could never see beyond quick paychecks and the next good time. He lived in the moment, the thought of being bound to any kind of protocol or authority intolerable. Carson knew it would be useless to explain with words, and instead gave Grigg a look that said it all, before turning and walking silently away.

"You're not serious, are you Charlie?" Grigg asked following after him, this time without any trace of banter.

Carson stopped where he stood but didn't turn around.

"I am," he told him. "I'm tired of it, Charlie. The stealing, the lying, all of it! Nothing I say ever makes you see reason. I've given ten years of my life covering your back, and I'm not going to give one second more! I want a new life, Charlie, a respectable life. I've been given a chance to have one, and I'm going to take it."

It was said almost as much to himself as it was to his partner, and by the end of his speech Carson was breathing heavily, his jaw set in determination as he strode purposefully onward.

Grigg was also determined. He wasn't willing to give up without a fight.

He tried pleading.

"You can't just leave, Charlie! What about our act? The Cheerful Charlies! That's "Charlies", with an 's'!"

He tried doubt.

"So you'll throw it all away, and for what? To snivel over a bunch of rich lords and ladies who couldn't care less about you?"

He tried anger.

"Fine! Go on then! I don't need you!"

Grigg's words went unheeded and Carson continued walking purposefully away. His bag of tricks was emptying fast, and in a last ditch effort Grigg tried the one act that always managed to bring Carson round.

He tried guilt.

"You can't mean it, Charlie, you just can't!" Grigg said, warbling his voice with sorrow and mustering a few false tears. "I'm your friend, your partner. Without you I'd have no act, I'd have nothing! Is that what you want? To see me jobless and friendless, begging on the streets for my next meal?"

The slightest waver; a brief moment's hesitation as his steps drew slower. Ten years of memories flew by–most of them bad– before the resolve was back and Carson steeled his voice and looked over his shoulder.

"Goodbye, Charlie."

It was the last thing he would say to his partner for thirty years.

* * *

A failed performance, a dine-and-dash, a teashop food-fight, and three face-plants. It was the worst day of Charlie Carson's life, and as fate would have it, also the best.

But it wouldn't be for long. Carson had a feeling there were many good days ahead.

He'd finally discovered something he enjoyed doing, something that wouldn't require him to act or pretend a part. A job that came with dignity and honor, where he'd never be forced to steal a meal or suffer the insults of fools.

As he came upon an intersecting lane, he looked up at the freshly painted street sign. Gleaming brightly in neat and tidy letters, white words against black painted wood, it sat there: _Downton Abbey_ , straight to his left. He turned and continued on without once looking back, ready to leave the stage behind and begin his new life.

**Author's Note:**

> Champagne Charlie was written by George Leybourne in 1867.


End file.
